


Arsenic

by iphis17



Category: Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: Death, F/M, detailed description of poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphis17/pseuds/iphis17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arsenic is quite the poison of choice, these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arsenic

**Author's Note:**

> Written on the thirteenth day of February in the year 2011.

Arsenic is quite the poison of choice, these days.

Madeline Smith uses it to off the clerk called Emile L'Angelier. Florence Maybrick murders her husband with the stuff. Mary Ann Cotton is a serial killer with it.

It makes your skin pale. It kills fleas. It kills _rats_. It makes you beautiful. It makes you beautiful _forever_. Those who take arsenic stay eternally young in looks.

It's possible to take just a little, though. Maybe even more than that. Maybe you're resistant to it. Maybe it's the wrong sort. All sorts of _maybes_.

Maybe you survive. Maybe you didn't want to. Maybe you start getting headaches. You're dizzy. You're confused.

Maybe your fingernails change color. Maybe sometimes you move without meaning to. Maybe you start throwing up. Your feces become liquid, your urine bloody. Maybe your every muscle cramps. Maybe your hair starts falling out. The convulsions become worse. Your stomach hurts.

You hope you fall asleep and never wake. You've heard it might happen.

It doesn't.

\---

It's fifteen years since what you've been trying to forget happened, maybe. You can't really remember.

You've got no friends, maybe. You've got no one to help you, certainly. You haven't a place to call your own.

And suddenly, you hear things.

Not the voices in your head, but whispers around you, from living, breathing people. Sweeney Todd, they say. The barber of Fleet Street. He who lives with that Mrs Lovett, her as hasn't a husband. Probably sleeping with her.

These utterances come from people like you, maybe. People no-one cares about. People no-one would miss.

All you know is, you never see them again.

You start to wonder if it's the man you remember, if he would possibly _not_ seek you out. You wonder why he hasn't saved your child yet. You wonder why he'd be with _Nellie_ , of all women.

And you call yourself an idiot and move on with life, limbs trembling.

\---

Maybe you realize it is him, after all. You go to confront him.

You'll forgive him, maybe. You loved him, after all.

He slits your throat, maybe. It's quick. He's tired.

And then you're dead, and no tears can bring you back, ever.


End file.
